Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

“Now wot in ’ell’s inside that?” he demanded softly. “Well, we’ll cut ’eropen and just see.”

The end of the cutting edge of his clasp-knife was razor-sharp. With it, he began gently to cut longwise through the wax which was fairly hard. Quite suddenly the material inside the wax burst open, and Bisker sat looking down on a strip of white film less than half an inch in width and about twelve inches in length. On the film was a series of black dots smaller than pin heads.

Then Bisker’s blood froze. There was someone behind him. There had not been a sound, but he knew suddenly that someone stood behind him.

“Where did you find those pens, Bisker?”

The blood in Bisker’s veins began again to flow. The pens! Poof! He had feared that someone behind him was after the whisky in the bottle. The voice was that of Mr. Bonaparte.

Bisker’s Visitors

“DON’T MOVE your hand, Bisker. You might tear that most valuable film.”

Into the range of Bisker’s eyes Bony slid a long-fingered brown hand which closed firmly on his wrist. Against his shoulder pressed the slim body of the guest who had promised to consider how he could be released from servitude to Miss Jade. The strength in the hand about his wrist astonished Bisker.

Bony’s other hand then came into Bisker’s view, and the fingers began to disentangle the long strip of what appeared to be a species of celluloid on which the many dots showed clearly. It was not unlike a strip of cine-film.

“I am going to release your wrist. Don’t move it until I say so,” Bony ordered, and Bisker stared with fascination as the two brown hands slowly and carefully disengaged the strip. He saw that the inner end was attached to an aluminium spindle. “Take this end. Gently now. Take it by the edge and don’t let go.”

Bony now had the strip straightened between himself and Bisker, and with great care he began to rewind it on the spindle. Without speaking, Bisker watched the brown hands, and then glanced upwards at the brown face in which the blue eyes gleamed like gems, then down once more to the film being slowly re-wound. After what appeared to be a very long time for Bisker, who could observe the whisky bottle beyond Bony’s hands, the end he held was drawn against the roll, and now the roll was being pressed into the little waxlike case. Thereupon the cutselvedge’s were pressed together as the whole was inserted into the pen. Finally, the containing screw was replaced, and the pen slipped into the leather holder. Not until he saw the filled holder slipped into Bony’s inside coat pocket did Bisker speak.

“A bit calm-like, ain’tcher? I found them ruddy pens, not you. They might be worth a lot of money in reward.”

There was another box against a wall, and this Bony brought to the table and sat upon it to face Bisker.

“Well-wot about-” Bisker began and fell into a strained silence beneath the intense stare of those ice-cold blue eyes in the brown face. He experienced a distinct sense of relief when the blue eyes moved their gaze from him to the making of a cigarette, and the ensuing silence, in which the soft noises of the fire came as though from another world, seemed to Bisker to be interminable. Then, without looking up, Bony spoke:

“Go and draw down the blind. When you’ve done that, I am going outside to see if anyone is lurking about. You will then come here and sit down again, and you will not touch the whisky. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Bonaparte, but-what’s it all mean?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute or two. Now-the blind.”

Bisker felt rebellious, but he obeyed, and when he had pulled down the blind on the only window, Bony laid the newly made cigarette across the top of the glass bottle-stopper in fine balance. Then he slipped to the door he had not closed when he entered, opened it wide enough to permit his body to pass outside, and closed it.

The night was dark in spite of the stars. He moved swiftly round the first corner of the hut, then reversed and passed the door to gain the opposite corner. In this way he passed round the entire structure till he came again to the door and was satisfied that no one was playing hide and seek with him. Normal eyes would have failed to see the trunks of the gum trees bordering the driveway, the faint greyish tint of the garages seen from the door of the hut, and the bank of shrubs beyond the window-wall, with tall trees beyond it. Normal ears would not have registered the faint whispering of leaves stirred by an air current, nor have distinguished the foot-falls of a cat crossing a swathe of dead leaves. There were a host of shadows impenetrable even to Bony’s half-aboriginal eyes, gulfs and tunnels of black void which might conceal a hundred enemies, but he decided he could be reasonably sure that no one up to that moment had drawn near enough to the window and door to see what Bisker had taken from the shrub tub.

On opening the door of the hut, he found the rotund little man still seated on his case. But he was facing the door, his eyes wide and round and his grey moustache standing straight out from his face. Closing the door, Bony crossed to the table, seated himself on the second case, took the cigarette from the bottle top and lit it.

“You may get a cup or a glass, Bisker, and take a drink. Drinking from the bottle disturbs my appreciation of the niceties.”

Bisker blinked, rose and brought to the table a cracked cup. Bony passed him the bottle and watched the cup being half filled. The cup was raised to Bisker’s mouth and over it he regarded his visitor. Then he drank moderately and wiped his moustache with his coat-sleeve. He was invited to light his pipe.

“Where did you find those fountain pens?” Bony asked, and warned Bisker to speak softly.

“In the shrub tub to the left of the porch,” Bisker replied. “I was getting me bottle of whisky when me ’and felt the tops of the pens, sorta. Of course, I didn’t know what theywas. The bottle of whisky I-”

“Better not tell me when or how you got the bottle,” Bony cut in. “You say that you first felt the tops of the pens. Were they in their case just pushed down into the earth?”

“That was how it was, I think,” Bisker agreed.

“How near to your bottle were they buried?”

“Only about two inches away. You see, when I planted the bottle I feared losing some of the grog if I laid her down longwise, so I dug a hole with me ’ands just round enough to take the bottle and just deep enough to take it to allow for a coupler inches of earth over the stopper.”

“What time was that?”

“Only a few minutes before you came round the corner of the ’ouseand found me sitting on the tub this morning.”

“Humph! Let me think.”

Bisker drew hard at his pipe and watched the now-immobile face of his visitor. He wanted to ask questions but was restrained by a feeling of inferiority.

“Between thetime I left you sitting on the tub this morning and the time when the police arrived, did you leave the tub?”

“No,” answered Bisker. “I kept on sitting there.”

“There was a period of a little less than an hour between the departure of the Inspector and the arrival of the reporters, where were you during that time?”

“On the wood-stack most of it.”

“Could you see the tub from the wood-stack?”

Bisker shook his head.

“Did you see anyone walking about in that direction?”

“No.”

“All right. Tell me this. Do you think that you buried the bottle close to the pens, or that the pens were buried close to the bottle, after you had planted it?”

On this call to his intelligence, Bisker visibly brightened.

“I could have planted the bottle within two or three inches of the pens and not know they was there,” he said. “You see, Mr. Bonaparte, I took a good guess at the size of the ’ole I’d want to put the bottle in, and when I put ’erin she just naturally slipped down into a good fit.”